Bittersweet (Redemption #3) - Jessica Prince Page 0,23

an apology, I just wanted him to leave me the hell alone so I could lick my wounds in peace. So I didn’t give him so much as I backward glance as I stomped down the hall to my bedroom, shouting, “And leave your key on the counter before you go.”

With that, I slammed my door shut, threw myself onto the bed, and screamed into my pillow.

Chapter Seven

Shane

The rage tears had finally dried up. After I was certain my brother was gone, I threw my hair into a knot on the top of my head, changed into my workout clothes—a tight pair of yoga pants with a matching cami—and headed out to the detached garage.

The thing was too small to fit my car inside, so I’d hung a heavy bag from the rafters. I’d started taking kickboxing classes a couple years back as a form of exercise, but quickly discovered that there was something incredibly cathartic about beating the hell out of an inanimate object.

I already worried that Brantley was predisposed to violence because of his father’s anger issues, so I kept my little guilty pleasure to myself, only used my punching bag when he wasn’t home. It worked wonders. I’d grown up holding firmly to the control in my life only to lose my grip and have it slip through my fingers. These little sessions out in the garage helped me feel like I was getting some of that power back.

With my knuckles taped, I punched and kicked the bag until my breathing turned ragged and my skin misted with sweat. With each blow, I pictured Jensen’s and Stone’s faces until a smile pulled at my lips as I envisioned beating the holy hell out of the two men in my life who were doing my head in.

I loved the feel of my muscles staining, of knowing I was pushing my body to the max as the rage that had been building up inside of me began to burn off.

The sound of pipes cut through my calm, causing my fury to bubble up again. I kept my back to the open garage door, hitting and kicking the bag harder as the deep rumble of a motorcycle grew louder as it pulled into my driveway before the engine finally cut off.

“Unless you’ve come back to apologize, I don’t want to hear it,” I panted, landing a hard right hook. “And don’t think for a second I won’t use your face as a punching bag, asshole.”

“I don’t doubt that one bit,” a voice I hadn’t been expecting said.

I whipped around so fast the bun on the top of my head wobbled, causing some of the strands to come loose. Time started to move in slow motion as Jensen climbed from a Harley Fat Boy. His well-muscled thighs bunched beneath the faded denim of his jeans as he threw his leg over and planted his motorcycle-boot-clad feet on the ground. His biceps strained against the cotton of his simple white tee as he reached up to remove the mirrored aviators that covered his face and hook them in the collar of his shirt.

He’d had a bike back in the day as well, after he broke away from his parents to start a life with me, leaving the G-Class behind. He’d hooked his wagon to a chick who’d grown up surrounded by bikers. I loved everything about riding, and my love had rubbed off on him in a really big way. Scooter and his whole crew were bikers. Banks, Danno, Fletch, Judge. Hell, it was such a way of life that even their kids fell into it. I loved all things motorcycle. Cannon was a biker to his very soul. Even though Stone hadn’t lived in Redemption in years—a biker town through-and-through—he was born and bred a biker and was still one to this day.

When my family brought my man into the fold, that bug grew to the point it could no longer be ignored. We hadn’t had a lot money-wise back then since Jensen refused to dip into the trust his grandfather had set up for him and wasn’t exactly raking it in working as a mechanic for Cannon’s father, Banks. Still, the old Triumph he’d gotten when he turned nineteen had been his pride and joy. Some of my best memories involved riding on the back of that bike with him, my arms wrapped tightly around his stomach as the wind whipped around my face, placing its stinging kisses on my